Strangers
by johnsarmylady
Summary: London can be a cold and lonely place. In the cold of the first winter following The Fall, John tries to befriend and help a homeless man. A birthday fic for the talented Mrs Noggin - Happy Birthday!


**A birthday fic for the talented Mrs Noggin - Happy birthday my dear.  
Disclaimer: The characters in this story are only borrowed, I make no money from them, just enjoy their fleeting company.**

He didn't move out of 221B, despite the memories.

He didn't refuse to step into Mycroft's car despite their differences.

He didn't turn down the job at Bart's despite the horror he felt every time he passed the spot where his friend had died.

He didn't avoid Greg despite the fact that many believed he was to blame (including the man himself), but John knew the DI was hurting as much as he was, was grieving for the brilliant young man.

So every day, John made himself go through the motions, getting up, going to work.

xXx

Six months in, and the December weather had steadily worsened, from cold and windy to freezing rain and sub-zero nights.

It was just such a night that John, making his way back to Barbican tube station, heading for home, noticed the homeless man. He hadn't seen him before, yet his almost white hair seemed to glow in the reflected light of the street lamps, and he looked cold pale and miserable.

John stopped and turned around, looking back at the man. There was no hand held out for money, no hat or box laid on the floor for spare change. Without a second thought the doctor dodged across the road, and was back a few minutes later standing over the shivering man.

"I hope you don't have any allergies." He said softly, pressing a cardboard cup of sweet tea into the man's hands, and dropping a wrapped sandwich into his lap. "It's just plain cheese on white bread, but it's better than nothing."

The stranger tilted his head away, looking sideways at his good Samaritan, and then sipped at the hot sweet liquid.

"You okay?" John asked, and was rewarded with a single nod as the man delved into the bag to retrieve the sandwich.

Realising he wouldn't get any more out of him, John stood up and watched for a few seconds more as the man slowly ate the food, the turned once more toward the station.

Over the next week John saw the man regularly, in the same doorway, and each night he bought him a cup of tea and a sandwich – always plain and varying only in the choice of filling.

Then one night, totally out of the blue, as he handed over the food and drink, a bony hand shot out and grasped his wrist. John looked down startled, but the man still didn't look at him – he never had.

"Thanks mister." The voice was hoarse, rough as if from lack of use.

"It's John." The short doctor smiled "What should I call you?"

The thin shoulders shrugged, the bones almost visible under the thin jacket he wore. John tried again.

"What do your friends call you?"

Again the shrug, and this time the hand released his wrist and cupped around the warm drink. John didn't push it; instead he reached into his pocket and pulled out his notebook, quickly scribbling something on the page before tearing it out.

"Look, here's the address of a night shelter near here – it's not going to get any warmer and you're hardly dressed for the winter." He waited until the almost blue fingers closed around the paper. "That number on there is my mobile – if you ever need help give me a ring – the owner of the coffee shop will let you use his phone, or go into the hospital, tell them you need to get hold of Dr John Watson. They'll get word to me."

It seemed there was nothing more to be said, and John turned to go.

"Why?"

The question was almost lost amid the noise of passing traffic.

"Sorry?"

"Why this?" the hunched figure waved the paper slightly.

John thought for a moment.

"Because a while back I lost my best friend," now it was John's turn to shrug. "Because this is a big city, with a lot of people, but without a friend it's the loneliest place in the world. Even without a name, you don't have to be a stranger."

Thinking he had probably said too much, John turned and walked away.

When he was sure the doctor wouldn't turn and look back, the homeless man stood and watched until he had disappeared from sight, then looked down at the paper in his hand.

"My only friend." He said softly to himself, his voice back to its normal baritone. "My John."


End file.
